Page 16 of Forget Me Not
I’m back at Galloway by the end of the day, this time with both of my bags by my side.
Mitchell had requested the afternoon to get ready, suggesting I come back after dinner to get settled, and I had agreed. Eyes darting to Liam as he watched through the window, feeling a little dizzy at how quickly things changed.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” I had asked my mother, loitering on the porch as the sun started to set, the live oak’s large branches casting shapes on the lawn. In the late-afternoon light, they almost looked like fingers, arched and arthritic. An outstretched hand hovering over us both.
“Oh, sure,” she said, flicking her wrist like I was a gnat she was shooing away. “As long as you’re good to drive through the night.”
I hadn’t even been home long enough to unpack—less than twenty-four hours, in fact—a realization that made me feel dimly guilty the second I stepped into my bedroom, eyeing my bags in their same spots on the floor. Still, my mom believed me when Itold her I was going back to the city; that something came up at work I couldn’t turn down. I didn’t want to admit where I was really going. That I was staying in the state, barely an hour away. The thought of another night in that house enough to make my skin itch, my past a rash that would never heal. Of course, I considered the fact that I might bump into her somewhere around town—at a coffee shop, maybe; in the aisles of the grocery store. A month is a long time to be hanging around, and Galloway is only forty-five minutes away… but then I remembered she rarely leaves the house.
My mom’s practically a recluse, choosing to exist inside her bubble of the past instead of real life. Besides, she can’t drive. She’s essentially housebound.
“And your neighbor said she’d check in?” I continued, glancing down at her leg as I second-guessed, once again, if I was doing the right thing.
“Claire, I’ll be fine,” she said as she crossed her arms tight, an unexpected sadness settling over my shoulders, because even though I knew she wouldn’t ask me to stay, it stung that she was letting me go so easily. The child in me apparently still starved for affection, a burning thirst that could never be quenched.
I’m standing in front of the Galloway main house, twilight casting everything in a yellow glow. It looks so strange outside, the goldenrod sky reflecting off the water; goliath trees covered in moss and dripping vines visible in the distance. The air is bloated and still, an eerie stagnation like before a tornado, and I grab my phone out of my pocket, snapping a few pictures before I pick up my things and walk up the porch steps, realizing I’m not exactly sure what to do next. I know they’re expecting me, I assume I should knock, so I rap a few times on the door and stand still as I wait, the sound of footsteps echoing from somewhere deep inside the house.
I stare down at the door, squinting in the dusk as I take in the brass knob. A cursiveMembellished on the surface that looks like an old, weathered antique.
I reach out to touch it, the pad of my finger drawn to the curves, but then the door suddenly swings open and my attention snaps up, my eyes on Liam on the other side of the screen.
“Welcome back,” he says, one shoulder leaning against the frame, and I feel an inexplicable relief at his presence. I barely know the man, but there’s something about him that feels familiar. An inherent comfort in a friendly face. “Come on in,” he continues, opening the screen door and gesturing for me to follow. “Marcia and Mitchell are just inside.”
I step into the house and let him lead me to the foyer, stealing glances at various rooms as we walk. Despite the grand exterior, the inside of the house is somewhat dated, the way older homes usually are, but still, it’s nice. Cozy. Patterned wallpaper with little white daises and doily coasters on shiny wood desks. It smells like masked aging, the sensory equivalent of slathering makeup over liver spots, dots of concealer under baggy brown eyes.
I catch a whiff of burnt dust and some kind of citrus. Antiseptic and hand cream, lavender and lime, and then the hallway spills into the living room and I eye a late-middle-aged woman slouched in a chair in the corner. Her eyes are closed, one long braid draped over her shoulder, and I stop in my tracks, standing at what feels like a safe distance as I take in her hands folded into a neat little knot in her lap. Her skin looks tissue-paper thin, speckled like a sparrow’s egg, and I feel a twinge of something strange deep in my chest.
Discomfort, overt voyeurism, even though I know I was invited to be here.
“Tea?”
I twist around, spotting Mitchell as he walks out of the kitchen with two steaming mugs clenched in his hands. He thrusts one inmy direction without waiting for me to respond, so I take it, not wanting to be rude, even though it feels a little too hot for tea. My skin still slick from the outside air.
“Let’s sit over there,” he says. “Get to know each other a bit.”
I follow, taking a seat in the chair opposite his.
“This is Marcia,” he says, gesturing to the woman as her thin lids fly open. It makes me jump, the sudden movement, and I watch as her neck slowly turns, cloudy eyes blinking like they’re fighting their way through a blanket of fog.
“Hi, Marcia,” I say, slightly taken aback by her appearance. It might be because she’s seemingly just woken up, her eyes still coated in that miasma of sleep, but while Mitchell looks quite good for his age, Marcia appears to be somewhat ill. “Thank you for inviting me into your home.”
I smile, waiting for a response that never arrives.
“Where are you from?” Mitchell asks as Marcia blinks at me again, agonizingly slow. There’s a certain emptiness in her eyes, two pinprick pupils with the hue around them a lackluster gray like all her color is fading away.
I force myself to turn back toward him, trying to decide how to respond.
“New York,” I say at last. “Manhattan.”
“Manhattan,” he repeats, a low whistle whining through his front teeth. “And what brought a city girl like you to our little vineyard on Ladmadaw Island?”
“Oh,” I say, twisting my hands around the mug, feeling the pinch of warmth on my palms. I don’t want to go into the whole story—my mom, her accident; finding those pictures of Natalie here and feeling like an intruder in my own home—so I strip the answer down to its most basic truth. “I needed a change of scenery. For the summer, you know. Nice, open space. I don’t get much of that in the city.”
“Change of scenery,” he repeats before lowering his voice, leaningin close. “In my experience, that usually means you’re running from something.”
He lifts his eyebrows like the two of us are sharing some kind of secret and I feel another flush deep in my chest, a warm sensation like this man somehow understands me even though I know we’ve only just met.
“It’s nothing like that,” I lie, attempting a smile, though he’s still quiet, still staring, like he’s genuinely waiting for me to explain.
